Barbaric Banquet Inn
The aroma of fresh breakfast being cooked jerked me from my slumber, low grumbles dripping from my mouth as I stirred. The tender embrace of the soft threads enveloping me did little to assuage the sharp pounding sensation that pervaded my skull - no doubt a consequence of the toxins I had ingested the night before. After enduring a few moments of cranial agony, I begrudgingly urged my eyelids to pry away from one another, allowing light to penetrate and introduce further discomfort. I squint to adjust to the mellow glow of the room, which appeared completely foreign to me once my eyes were finally able to bring everything into focus. I was lying in an unfamiliar queen-sized bed in what appeared to be a cottage of some sort, with absolutely no idea how I had gotten there. Wooden, warm and cozy, the dwelling resembled that of a cliche bed and breakfast, complete with tacky paintings and a writing desk nestled against the wall beneath a window. The night before had been a debaucherous bar crawl, hosted by my older brother, Alexander, to celebrate my twenty-first birthday with some of our mutual friends. As someone who had always been a bit protective over me, Alexander, of course, saw it as his "duty" to guide me through the new indulgences that were available to me as a man who had finally come of age - with, presumably, the added perk of beholding my misery the following morning. That being said, there was no sign of Alexander or his entourage anywhere, and I hadn't even the foggiest idea of how I had ended up in this bed in the first place. Despite my deepest desires to the contrary, lying in bed wasn't going to shed any light as to his whereabouts, nor was it going to nurse the fierce pounding of this hangover to a dull thud. With a reluctant sigh, I heaved my body out of the bed, my numb toes embracing the old hardwood flooring and causing it to squeak in protest against the nails holding it in place. My legs clumsily carried me to the window, which evidently overlooked the parking lot, beyond which existed only tranquil wilderness. Within the lot I spotted Alexander's familiar rusted Jeep Cherokee, which relieved my anxieties about my brother's whereabouts. Content in the knowledge that he was indeed nearby, I resolved to make my way downstairs and investigate the possibility of getting some food in my system. I stumbled into the hallway, down the creaky stairs and into the foyer, where I was greeted by the powerful aroma of cooked meat, maple syrup, and coffee. As I peered around to find the source of the scent, my eyes fell upon a stern looking old man, likely in his late fifties, reading a book behind the receptionist counter. The features of his face were serious and rugged, his leathery skin seemingly stretched over his frame yet somehow wrinkling. I approached him to inquire about breakfast, recoiling dramatically against the harsh sunlight beaming in through the front windows. By the time my eyes were able to adjust, the only thing I could focus on was the man's outstretched finger, pointing in the direction of the neighboring room. My eyes followed, making out tables and chairs of the uninhabited dining room the man was silently pointing out to me. I thanked him and entered, pouring myself a cup of coffee and plopping down into one of the chairs. The atmosphere of the dining room struck me as a bit odd. Even though it was early, it seemed really unlikely that nobody else would have turned up for breakfast by now. What's more, there weren't any menus in the entire room. It was still homey and quaint like the rest of the inn, so these observations were probably nothing more than the nitpicking of an irritated fool who had drunk himself into the oblivion he was currently suffering. Still, something about it just seemed... off. Of course, when the old receptionist made his way out of the kitchen carrying a steaming breakfast platter, all of the tension and apprehension melted away. I did find it strange that the same old man who served as the receptionist for the inn was also serving as the waiter, but chalked it up to it probably just being a short-staffed family business. The old man placed the platter and a newspaper on the table without a word, bowing before excusing himself from the dining room and leaving me alone once more. The platter looked amazing, covered with pancakes, several eggs cooked to varying consistencies, sausage links, and patties, and hashbrowns with crumbled sausage mixed in. Completing the assorted tray was an ornate card which read, "To our favorite guest, compliments of the Barbaric Banquet Inn." Judging by the volume of food I was presented with, I could only assume it was referred to as the "Barbaric Banquet" due to the fact that every meal was no less than a feast. Without a second thought, I yanked the silverware from its napkin wrapping and started to dig in. My immediate impression was that the sausage that had been served was absolutely divine. Whether it was hangover-induced gluttony or a secret recipe involving a custom seasoning of some sort, the sweet and savory essence of the meat was irresistible. The pancakes, eggs, and spuds provided good filler sustenance, sure, but it was clear that the meat was the prize of the banquet. And so I gobbled up every crumb of it that I could, scouring the tray for every last speck and even going so far as to lick it clean. It was in the last bite of the final sausage patty that I detected an imperfection; something solid that stood out from the soft texture of the meat. I pushed this solid to the front of my mouth with my tongue and plucked it from my teeth, examining it in the light in an attempt to discern what it could be. After a few moments, I merely blinked before releasing my grip on the piece of fingernail that had just been swirling around in my mouth and watched it fall to plate. Needless to say, my appetite was gone - not that I felt capable of shoving anything more down my gullet, anyhow. I doubled back to the front desk to file a complaint with the receptionist, who of course was now nowhere to be found. Becoming increasingly frustrated wasn't doing my headache any favors, and due to a mixture of disgust, disappointment, and discomfort, I found myself feeling more bold than usual. Bold enough to walk right into the kitchen and give the staff a piece of my mind. I strode back through the dining room, scooping up the fingernail fragment and marching through the swinging doors leading into the kitchen only to find that it was... empty. Not a soul in sight. Confused, I absent-mindedly walked further into the kitchen, not really sure what I was looking for. The aroma of the sausage lingered in the air, and I chased that scent to a grinder that appeared to have been used to break down the raw meat. On the wall above the grinder was a schedule for dishes that would be served throughout the week. Days that had passed appeared to be indicated with an "X," with breakfast meats like "steak," "ham omelets" and "homemade bacon" having already passed. Something about the schedule seemed off, however. Sausage links and sausage patties were scheduled for Saturday, July 28th, the only day on the weekly schedule that had not yet been crossed out. But that couldn't be right, because my birthday was July 23rd; so today had to be the 24th. I shrugged, reasoning that the chef must have made the decision for one reason or another to move forward with Saturday's dish today instead. Turning away from the schedule, I couldn't help but notice that a nearby freezer had the faintest streak of red across its aluminum handle, more than likely due to the raw meat that was handled in here. Still, my curiosity got the best of me, and I felt compelled to investigate the freezer. I'll never forget the sense of dread and urgency I felt manifesting as I approached the door of that freezer, my heartbeat gradually picking up and pounding through my head, my hand inexplicably shaking as I raised it to the handle. I remember standing there staring at my hand gripping the bloody handle of that freeze for what felt like ages. It was like somehow I ''knew '' that I didn't want to look into that freezer. I eventually managed to swallow my fear, mentally reciting to myself that I had no reason to be so nervous, and pulled the freezer door back to reveal what appeared to be a fairly normal walk-in. There were ziplock bags and various tupperwear containers filled with raw meats, exactly what one might expect to find in the freezer of a kitchen belonging to a bed and breakfast establishment. I chuckled to myself as I sauntered into the freezer, feeling foolish for getting myself so worked up over nothing. Why had I felt the need to invade the walk-in anyway? As I turned to exit and resume my search for someone I could tell about the unwelcome talon in my food, a glint of something shiny on the shelf near the door caught my eye. As I approached to investigate, I felt a pit sink deep into my stomach. It was what appeared to be a man's wedding band, with flakes of frozen blood stuck to it. As I leaned in to get a closer look, my mouth became dry and I could feel my entire body shaking. My legs went numb, and my heartbeat became so intense that all I could hear was its throbbing in my ear. By the time I was close enough to read the inscription on the inside of the band, all sense of reason had left me. "Forever your Firefly, Rachel" Rachel. That was the name of Alexander's wife. With fresh eyes, I slowly turned my head looked around the walk-in once more, my previously calm visage now corrupted by absolute horror. The meat being preserved there now looked grotesque and alien to me. It didn't look like chicken, pork, beef or any other sort of typically consumed meat. The realization of what I was surrounded by - and what that meant for the food being served here - sent me into a panic I had never experienced before. I immediately lurched forward and retched out the contents of my stomach, gasping for air but unable to fill my lungs before another wave of vomit exited me. Seeing it there on the floor upset my stomach even more, and I hurled again while stumbling to exit the freezer. At this point, my own thoughts were completely incoherent, panicked sentences overlapping in my mind as I stood hunched over, my eyes wide open and mouth agape. The only sound I could make out beside my own frenzied ruminations was the relentless beating of my heart in my ears, thumping so hard and so fast that my entire body was numb and it felt as though my chest was about to explode. I attempted to control my labored breathing and staggered toward the swinging doors that led into the dining room, peaking through the slit between the doors. Nobody was in the dining room, but my eyes were frozen, affixed to the table I had previously been dining at. The platter was gone. The idea that the perpetrator of these heinous acts was still in the building, carefully cleaning up after my trail while remaining completely undetected, plunged my mind into utter hysteria. I fumbled through my pockets searching for my phone, unable to find it, exacerbating my mania even further. With no other options, I slowly pushed through the threshold and into the dining room, checking my corners to be absolutely certain I was safe. I practically sprinted across the dining room toward the foyer, doing everything in my power to remain silent. I peeked past the corner and into the foyer, finding that room vacant as well. Behind the front desk rested an ordinary landline phone, my ticket to freedom if I could get the police to trace the source of the call. I dove behind the desk, snatching the phone and holding it to my ear and starting to dial 911. Except I heard nothing. No dial tone, no busy tone, nothing. The phone was a fake. I sobbed silently to myself as hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I couldn't even bring myself to make a peep under the crushing weight of my terror. My only hope now was to recover Alexander's keys and make a break for it with the Jeep or recover my phone, both of which required me climbing back up the stairs to get back to the rooms. After sobbing hysterically for what felt like hours, I steeled myself to be thrown back into the gauntlet. I stood and swung around in a single, sharp motion, grabbing a pen as my only weapon and making my way slowly toward the stairs. I attempted the ascend them silently, but due to how old the structure was, that was impossible. Every creaky step was absolute agony, a sure signal to the owner of the inn where I was. When I finally made it back to my room, I noticed my phone sitting invitingly on the desk beneath the window. I dashed to the desk and clutched the phone, immediately becoming puzzled by the date - July 28th. I shook my head and steeled myself again, resolving to contact the police and get out of this horror story alive. But I was puzzled again when it said my passcode had been incorrect. I tried inputting it again, and again, and again, becoming increasingly frenzied with each failed attempt until finally... I heard it. The floorboards right behind me creaked. I felt something strike my skull with ridiculous force, and I fell into a pile on the floor, my vision dwindling into infinite blackness. The last thought I had was the acceptance that I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it. - - - - - - - - - - The aroma of fresh breakfast being cooked jerked me from my slumber, low grumbles dripping from my mouth as I stirred. The tender embrace of the soft threads enveloping me did little to assuage the sharp pounding sensation that pervaded my skull - no doubt a consequence of the toxins I had ingested the night before. After enduring a few moments of cranial agony, I begrudgingly urged my eyelids to pry away from one another, allowing light to penetrate and introduce further discomfort. I squint to adjust to the mellow glow of the room, which appeared completely foreign to me once my eyes were finally able to bring everything into focus. I was lying in an unfamiliar queen-sized bed in what appeared to be a cottage of some sort, with absolutely no idea how I had gotten there. Wooden, warm and cozy, the dwelling resembled that of a cliche bed and breakfast, complete with tacky paintings and a writing desk nestled against the wall beneath a window. Category:Places Category:Dismemberment